


word extract

by SEMercury



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Free Verse, Other, Poetry, Tags to be added, i pretend that lack of capitalization is a style, varied structure, venting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-17 14:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16976115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEMercury/pseuds/SEMercury
Summary: they say that poetry is condensed language. so just as vanilla or peppermint extract is highly condensed oils from those things, wouldn't that make poetry language extract?i write poetry as a way to vent, a way to cope. poetry is excess emotions put onto paper. sometimes the emotions are happy and sometimes they are sad. unfortunately, they are mostly sad. here's a collection of that.





	1. mourning the loss of someone who never existed

**Author's Note:**

> some people? write bad poetry?? to c ope????

hearts do break all the time  
night after night, day after day  
so it should be no surprise  
that things ended this way

trust has been broken  
shattered like glass  
but even glued together  
as a whole it will never pass

a stranger with the face of care  
so subtle to me in cruel attack  
my knife collection is large enough  
from all the ones found in my back

though now the ruse is up  
and no amount of closure will do  
old habits die hard, but still  
i would give my love to you

and truly this was a tragedy  
the way that this did end  
i can't say i'll miss you  
but i will miss my friend


	2. local loser feeling emo in this chili's tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> people almost dating you, smh, amiright??

it’s not so much that i believe in the idea of soulmates, but rather that i somehow feel that we were meant to be on some cosmic level.

and maybe it’s just because you were the closest thing to love i ever had. or maybe the lack of closure.

or perhaps there was closure, but the nights of drinking alone have erased it from my memory.

either way, i hold on to the idea of you, white knuckled, on the edge of a cliff.

dangling  
dangling  
dangling

but i can’t tell if i’m holding on to the edge afraid i’ll fall, of if i’m holding on to the idea of you, fearing the only thing that made me happy will soon be lost to the sea of time.

regardless, i’m slipping.


	3. everyone point at me and laugh so i can feel some sort of emotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes, i really do title my poems like this. don't judge me.

i remember when i was young some of our neighbors had headstones in their front lawn as halloween decorations. i was terrified of them, but you weren’t.  
you laughed.

it’s funny to me now, and i’d laugh too, and how naive that little girl was, thinking props could be more frightening than the ghosts that haunt her mind.

maybe it’s the crunchy leaves and the gray skies, but i can’t help but to think back to those days when we would ride our bikes up and down the street, sometimes daring to venture over to another block.  
back when the most painful things were skinned knees and broken bones.

how naive.

but you taught me so many things, and i suppose i should thank you for those lessons. like that everyone lies and that you shouldn’t trust anyone. that if you open yourself up to someone they will hurt you because of it. that the only person in life i can count on is myself.  
and that myself is a pretty worthless person.

how bittersweet the leaves are. changing colors as they die, knowing that in spring they will be grown anew.

i wish my spring would come.


	4. bowling for soup songs have absolutely no business making me feel these emotions, but anyway take this shitty excuse for poetry i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i almost wish you would have loved me too."

in all my years of coming in second place  
never once finishing what i began  
i’ve come to find that ‘almost’  
hurts more than 'did’ or 'didn’t’ ever can.

i almost ran a red light but,  
so you think, thankfully i stopped just in time  
but now by breaks are shot  
and i owe ninety-nine ninety-nine.

i don’t use capitalization because i think  
this way i almost have a style but then i remember  
i still can’t write poetry and the words crawl in my veins  
and i sit back and think about ten years ago this november.

my heart rate moves up and down on the screen  
beating strangely, the peaks and valleys not quite right  
but the doctors all say it falls within the normal range  
so they tell me to cut caffeine and rest more at night.

sometimes i sit and think, 'hey, at least i dodged a bullet’  
but what i often forget is that the gun was in my own hand  
i threw myself off a boat to maybe for once find peace  
but unfortunately made it all the way back to land.

i almost fell in love. if you could even call it that.  
i dreamed of your hand, to be a lover more than a friend  
but i soon learned that sometimes people can be 'almosts’ too  
and perhaps that was better for both in the end.

so when i say i almost took my life, i don’t say it in a happy way  
as if i have beaten the demons inside of me  
because quite frankly i have not. i just don’t care anymore.  
i almost healed, but now i’d just rather let them be.

almost had it all, almost loved life, almost made people proud,  
almost flew, almost dreamed, almost wasn’t quite so scared,  
almost broke, almost died, almost hoped, almost tried,  
almost grew, almost lived, almost thought i had been repaired,

i almost thought people cared.


	5. ha hah ah ah haha yeah….

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look i actually used capitalization in this one

I love the way that the world looks  
when the setting sun lights everything on fire.  
Perhaps the warm glow could save me  
or at least quench my desire.  
If I could taste the light I think  
it would taste like a first kiss  
on a humid summer’s night  
with tangled arms and tentative bliss.  
But as I lick my lips all I can taste  
is the rust of the words I bite back;  
chapped and rough and cold  
stained red from many a crack.  
And my heart aches, and maybe  
that is the reason I drink.  
So that I can forget these thoughts and wishes.  
So that I can forget your name and how to think.


	6. dumb bitch took a shower and hated the pervy spider who watched her, so she went and wrote emo poetry about her gross ceiling, gosh what a loser

Cobwebs have always made me sad,  
because it means that nothing was there for so long  
that a spider decided to make itself home  
but eventually  
even the spider wanted to leave,  
so now only dust is collected in long, melancholy strings.  
I can’t help but wonder that  
if it could  
the dust would leave too  
since who would want to be there?  
And maybe that’s why my chest hurts so much  
because cobweb clogged caverns cannot  
pump like they are supposed to.


	7. if i put it in a quote like it’s a poem it’s less depressing right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i put sad thoughts in quotes as if i wrote them as poems, but really it's mostly just me venting. but it's overly symbolic because i'm a very extra person, so i guess it does count as a poem.

Exactly how pathetic is it to cry over the ashes of the bridges I burned myself?  
And is it made even worse if I smear them on my face, because there’s something so poetically tragic about the inky black streaming down my cheeks.  
Maybe I should learn to look ahead before I start fires.  
And maybe I should learn that a person can’t fill the holes in a heart.  
It’s funny how something so simple like the night sky or a few chords can make me ache, make me regret.  
Make me feel and also feel nothing.  
But then again, it has never been surprising, has it?  
And I will continue to start these fires until I am an isolated island that wonders just what it was about her that made people leave.


	8. i've changed a lot since i was 14, but i'm still a dumbass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've been writing shitty poetry since i was 14 and had a crush on a boy way too old for me as a way to cope. that's a decade of writing shitty poetry.

The smell of sawdust still makes my heart skip a beat and then sink. I remember the warm lights too, the caked on makeup, the slight musty scent of sweat and hard work.

But the sawdust is what makes the memories come flooding back even more.

I’ve changed a lot since then. Every cell in my body has been replaced by new ones. I don’t eat meat anymore. My hair is short now. And I’ve stopped self harming. Well, at least for now.

My skin still starts to feel hot when I think of you, so I guess that hasn’t changed. Though I don’t think it’s from infatuation anymore, but rather embarrassment. I still make a fool of myself today, so I guess that hasn’t changed either.

Sawdust is kind of strange when you really think about it. It’s wood. That’s all it is. But it’s broken wood, cut out after long stretches of unbearable noise and pressure. Friction. It’s warm when it falls, but then it just lays there, eventually swept up and thrown out. Yet at the same time, it is soft. It doesn’t hurt like splinters or sticks. But it is still useless. And it can never become wood again.

Sometimes you fall for someone but they don’t catch you. I knew that was a possibility, I think everyone does. But even saying you’re okay with it doesn’t prepare you for when your knees hit the floor. And it hurts. But people can’t love you back together. And hoping they can just makes you more broken in the end.

But eventually it all goes soft and you move on, sweeping up your dusty bits and tossing them out. But your heart will still have pieces missing: the ones now laying on the top of the trash.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that you changed me. Meeting you was a clear point in my life where there was a before and an after. To this day, I don’t know which one I preferred. I wish I could change things; I wish I could change what I did and said. But I don’t think I’d be the person I am today without having made those mistakes. But maybe I’d be a better person if I hadn’t.

Either way, the smell of sawdust is always a bittersweet, double edged sword to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters 2-8 were copy-pasted poem things from my tumblr blog that i've written over the last year or so.
> 
> one of my very best friends made a moodboard of my writing for my birthday this past year, and i wanted to share it here because i still want to cry happy tears when i think of it: http://drowning-in-this-starry-serenade.tumblr.com/post/179944991043/heres-a-mood-board-i-made-for-one-of-my-very-best


	9. the art of a perfect stomachache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anxiety is super fun, folks!

i was in first grade.  
poked like a pincushion.  
but my blood never told  
why exactly i felt so sick.

it would begin as butterflies.  
dancing in my belly.  
little did i know that those wings  
were feathery razor blades.

bathroom floors are unsanitary.  
cold and uncomfortably moist.  
but the stalls never told the secrets  
of my sobs and shakes.

a word. a note. a smell.  
anything. everything. nothing at all.  
my insides twist and turn  
begging for release.

hot water pounding on my back.  
the sight of the food i had just eaten.  
i heave over the drain, sobbing, begging  
for the fear to stop coursing through my veins.

it burns my tongue and throat.  
but at least it makes my brain numb.  
until i wake with a pain and stains  
of vomit on my shirt.

nothing helps. no tea or ale.  
my stomach always aches.  
but i know now why.  
it is because of my mind.


	10. survivor's guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've been to too many funerals.

you learn about death as a child pretty early on.  
whether it's from some elderly family member or your mom accidentally playing old yeller.

sometimes it's a real dog.

but you don't realize how permanent death is until you see it firsthand.  
everyone crying. absent parents. the smell of hospitals. all gone after a single phone call.

i have to become the glue.

even then, it was older people. it's not as if a friend could die.  
until that's exactly what happens. a blur. no sleep. bright colors at the funeral.

we had three days to learn.

but it can't happen twice. the universe isn't that cruel.  
but he'll fight it. he'll win. he won't die. he isn't dying. please. not again.

life is not fair.

and now when you see them. or hear about them.  
all you can think is how they used to have three kids. and now they have one.

why wasn't it me?

the funerals were big. grand. nearly an hour wait to see the coffin.  
standing room only at the Mass. which was good. no one could see you cry on the pillar.

why wasn't it me?

how much these young lives are missed. gone too soon. so loved.  
even the older ones. a mother. a sister. a bright and shining soul with a smile for everyone.

why wasn't it me?

and yet i long to throw my own life away. for self destruction is all i know.  
surely their lives were more valuable than mine. they are missed more than i would have been.  
goodness was taken out of the world when their spirits departed.  
and i know that goodness would go into the world if i were to somehow leave it.

so why, why wasn't it me instead?


	11. how to forgive when there was no sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have a migraine from switching medications and therapy today was a trip. this is something i've been thinking about a lot. someone told me this about a month ago, and it hasn't left my brain.
> 
> and i hate getting told i'm mature or wise. i'm not. it was the only option i was ever given. when you hear about kids who grew up too fast, you think of foster care, dead parents, or terrible abuse. you never hear about kids who were told they had to be the adult to everyone when they were so young...

"you need to forgive them."  
i have.  
"no. not really."  
what do you mean?  
"you're still thinking about them  
they are still controlling your life."  
you're right.

so how?

when you're a little kid, you're taught to forgive.  
timmy didn't mean to push you.  
forgive him.  
kaitlin didn't mean to be mean.  
forgive her.  
i didn't do anything wrong.  
forgive me.

i do.

i don't want to be pushed again though, so i don't talk to timmy.  
i don't want to have my feelings hurt, so i avoid kaitlin.  
i don't want to be blamed for things i didn't do  
so i avoid you.

that's not forgiving!  
turn the other cheek!  
what would Jesus do?  
Jesus died on the cross and He forgave!

i am twelve years old  
and i am held to the same standard as a god.

how come they never tell you when you're young  
that turning the other cheek was actually  
preventing yourself from getting struck again  
according to Jewish custom?

i am twelve years old.

i am told to be the bigger person.  
she has issues.  
she needs a friend.  
she has problems.  
she is sick.

you need to be a good friend.  
forgive and forget.

so i do.  
and the pattern continues.  
i am hurt over and over  
never receiving an apology.  
and yet i am told to take the high road.

it's always funny how often i get told i'm mature for a child  
as if i was given any other option.

so when i'm seventeen and stuck between two  
i default to mediator.  
i am the parent to children i never bore who are the same age as me.  
i am the bigger person.

but everyone has their limits.

i feel proud of myself for once.  
i actually stood up for myself.  
established a boundary.  
protected myself.

my hands still tremble when i think of those days.

constant fear of what i had done.  
venom spit in my face.  
venom that followed me home  
and infected my computer  
and phone.

so yes, i do still think of them.  
my wounds are still healing  
and probably will for a long time.  
and while i don't wish them ill  
i do wonder what cosmic entity thinks  
it's so funny to give them happy lives  
while i'm so broken.

do they know?  
do they care?  
do they ever think of the damage inflicted?

or are they too wrapped up with a fiance and perfect careers?

did they ever think of how much it hurt me?  
no.  
or if they did, they kept very silent.  
i took the blame.  
it wasn't my fault, but i did.  
i became the broken one.

the only thing is  
when i sacrificed myself  
no one was saved.


	12. did you know that gullible is actually in the dictionary?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you ever keep taking a test over and over again, but no matter how much you study or review, you keep getting the answers wrong?
> 
> yeah

"you have something on your face"  
oh, i'll go check  
"there's something written on the ceiling"  
where?  
"if you rub your hands together, they smell like peanut butter"  
ow  
"the monster is going to come get you"  
stop asking why, of course i'm crying

there are universal experiences as a child  
and getting lied to is one of them.  
and as a child, it is cute and naive  
to believe everything told to you.

it's less cute as you grow up.

"tell me who you have a crush on, i won't tell"  
okay!  
"you're one of my best friends"  
mine too  
"i'll never leave you"  
please come back  
"she's going to live"  
stop lying

maybe some weren't lies  
they just weren't truths.  
you can't tell a lie when you really  
believe the words coming out of your mouth.

can you?

"i'll never hurt you"  
please stop  
"i'm going to kill myself"  
please don't  
"i'll be the one that doesn't leave"  
please stay  
"at least you admitted you're a terrible friend"  
i know

they say to trust isn't a sign of weakness  
and that it doesn't mean you're childish.  
but sometimes people who believe everything  
are stupid and will never learn.

everything said to me is true.  
at least on some level.  
i am spoonfed my own reality.  
and conflicting statements break me.

why can't i learn?

"why do you care so much what people think?"  
he asks, pen ready to write down notes  
"logically you know you can't please everyone"  
he's right and yet here i sit  
"what people say or think doesn't reflect you"  
it doesn't? how? why? i don't understand  
"when people are upset, that's on them, not you"  
no, that's not true. i don't understand

because everything anyone says is true.  
people can't lie.  
and if people hate me and say i'm bad.  
then i guess that's what i am.


	13. having your reality rewritten for you kinda messes you up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure it's the chemicals in my brain being rude as they change, but lately the past has come to haunt me and i'm really afraid of it. i don't know what was real and what was a lie anymore. i can't remember. and i can't ask the others involved, because i already know they lied.

the frosted glass  
that does swim around me.  
what are you?  
and what will you be?

my fingertip touches  
the cold memories like fire.  
my hand jerks.  
my very mind becomes the liar.

thorns gather around  
and the tight ropes bind my arms.  
thoughts blend together.  
bright red screaming alarms.

"silly little girl"  
she says, toothy smile askew.  
i don't know.  
who am i? what is true?


	14. i'm here to kick ass and take names, but i'm really bad at remembering names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i think 2018 has been the worst year of my life so far. and quite frankly, that's saying a lot. it began in the shittiest way possible, had constant shit happen throughout, and is ending on a fucking fantastic note. but despite it all, i am still here. i am still fighting.
> 
> i'm ready for this year to be over. i'm ready for 2019: the year of learning to love yourself, the year of learning it's okay to be a little selfish, the year of figuring out that you can't pour from an empty cup, the year of standing up for yourself... it's going to be the year for the people who haven't had a year yet and desperately need a year for them.
> 
> and i'm going to make it that year for me or die trying.

it dribbles down my chin.  
blood and saliva.  
my eye is swollen shut.  
and breathing hurts.

but i am still here.

i have never risen like the phoenix.  
my ashes stay around me.  
but tonight i place them on my cheeks.  
war paint to ring in the new year.

the bell dings.

round twenty five.  
my knuckles are bruised.  
i want to quit.  
but i can't.

i have to keep fighting.

a roar rips from my throat.  
no - a battle cry.  
a swift kick and it falls.  
the year is over and i won.

bring in the next one.


	15. drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have a problem.
> 
> i also have two anxiety attacks today.
> 
> it's the guilt that hurts worse though.

diving in headfirst  
no regard for safety or self worth  
cold water laps at my skin  
and wouldn't you know it, i make things worse.

i grab under their arms  
and pull them to where the water meets the air  
but in the panic we both sink  
and the deep depths swallow us a pair.

is it morally permissible  
to swim as hard and as fast as i can  
making sure at the very least  
i myself can make it back to land?

and is it morally permissible  
to when i find myself unable to breathe  
to call for help knowing  
that i too may drag my rescuer down beneath?


End file.
